Tarot Academy 4 - Sarah Piper Page 0,100

I make my case. “I’ll give you the objects, and in return, you’ll allow earth-bound witches and mages to live out our lives in peace, without any interference or manipulation from you and your kind. Do whatever you want in your own realms, round up all the Dark Arcana assholes you can find, guzzle a case of Vodka and burn your homes to the ground for all I care. But whatever you do, leave us the fuck alone.”

“Do you even realize what you’re asking?”

“Only that you take your toys and go fuck off in your own damn sandbox.”

“You’re talking about my legacy, Starla. My father died for that magick.”

He’s talking about the First Fool, a man who abandoned his family and sacrificed himself so that the elemental beings would grant magick to humans. It’s him we have to thank for the magick that runs through our blood today.

And, in many ways, it’s him we have to thank for the epic shitshow befalling our world, with witches and mages turning dark and mundane authorities looking for any reason to lock us up or shoot us on sight.

“All the more reason for you to take the deal,” I say firmly.

He glares at me, the black feathers trembling. Then, out of nowhere, he throws his head back and laughs until tears stream down his wrinkled face.

“Did I say something funny?”

When he finally regains his composure, he looks at me with his usual crazy eyes and says flatly, “No. Absolutely not.”

“No, I’m not funny, or—”

“No deal. You’re wasting my time, and I can’t say I appreciate that.”

My heart drops into my stomach. That was my only bargaining chip. I figured he’d accept the deal, and the guys and I could work out how to break it later, hopefully murdering him in the process.

But that half-baked plan only works if he goes along with this first part.

“You don’t want the objects supposedly made from your father’s own flesh, blood, and bones?” I press.

“Of course I want them, but your terms are far too limiting.” He paces the small cave, his voice growing more fanatical with each step. “I need an army, Starla. A magickal army. There are not enough beings in my realm for that.”

“So you’re just going to keep stealing them from mine?”

“Well they’re not exactly volunteering, are they? That’s the problem with your kind. Most of you are weakened by a deeply flawed desire to be quote-unquote decent human beings.”

“Until you force them to go dark.”

“Oh, no. Even when captured and tortured, most witches and mages stick to their principals until the very end. It’s quite touching to see, if you’re one to be touched by such sentiments, which I am not. Besides, even if they did fight for me willingly, how could I ever really trust their loyalties? No, Starla. My methods are significantly more foolproof than that. In my operation, the only good witches and mages are the soulless witches and mages.”

A vision suddenly flickers to life in my mind, similar to the one I saw the day I was bitten by a rattlesnake, filled with zombified witches and mages with glowing yellow eyes, just like Luke when he was possessed by darkness.

Not possessed, I realize now. Soulless.

I gasp, unable to hide my disgust. But as much as I want to tell him to shove his magick methods up his ass and bounce myself the fuck out of this nightmare, I can’t. Not yet. The Magician is so enamored by his own dick-swinging, he’s actually giving me a glimpse at some solid intel. Intel we might be able to use to upend his entire operation.

Forcing a little quiver of fear into my voice, I look at him with wide eyes and say, “So you’re taking their souls and replacing them with… what?”

“Magick, of course.” He beams at me, chomping on the bait like a starving shark. “Oh, it’s beautiful, Starla. Here, let me show you.”

Without warning, he grabs my wrist again and presses his thumb into my tattoo, flooding my mind with a new vision. Witches and mages—hundreds and thousands of them—packed into jail cells and cages, crying for their lives. Then, those same witches and mages, shot dead in shallow mass graves, their souls imprisoned in the spiral-marked cave beyond the holly thicket, their broken bodies left for the coyotes, their bones left to rot.

Only in this vision, they don’t rot.

They rise. Pale gray skin reforms over the gnarly bones, knitting them back together. Blood drips from sharp teeth, eyes